


Bath Time

by Shadygrovegarden



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25419256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadygrovegarden/pseuds/Shadygrovegarden
Summary: It's time for young America's bath, and he decidedly does not want one.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia)
Kudos: 17





	Bath Time

Normally, the nanny was the one responsible for dressing and grooming America. Normally, this left England to attend to more important matters.

But England, in good conscience, wouldn’t wish bath time on anyone, and thus took it upon himself to bathe the boy.

Perhaps today he would be cooperative.

One could dream.

America had been playing on the grounds outside the manor. It was late afternoon, and he had finished his lessons for the day. England could already hear the imaginative yippings of the child from a distance, high-pitched and rowdy in all his playful glee. Juxtaposed, England remained deadly silent as he stalked up to the rambunctious lad, not unlike a fox hunting a rabbit. If rabbits were the noisiest creatures on earth with an unfortunate hatred for cleanliness.

England was a mere yard or two from America when he noticed him, cut off mid-sentence in his ramblings as he dropped the stick he’d been so confidently swinging around. There was some trepidation in his baby blue eyes— justified, for it wasn’t often that his father sought him out on the grounds, nonetheless joined him in play. He straightened his back, the way he’d been taught, and pulled at the hem of his doublet in an effort to compose himself. Still, his body was tense, on edge. He didn’t smile, “Yes, Father?”

His green eyes were hawkish, boring into his son as he crept up to him, closing the space between them. America instinctively leaned away from him, though he knew better than to move. Feeling more comfortable with shortened distance, England spoke in a deceivingly gentle tone, “Alfred, dearest,” He began to reach forward. “It’s time for your bath.”

Words barely out of his mouth, America bolted. England lurched for the boy and let out a swear when he missed him by a hair. America took off across the trimmed lawn, feet kicking up behind him. He ran as if his life depended upon it, and oh, it probably did, for England was mentally going over the ways he would personally _flay_ the little bastard later.

England chased after him, undignified in the sweltering Virginia sun, but it couldn’t be helped. The hell child never listened to reason, rebellious as they come. “Alfred!” his voice tore out, “Get back here young man! Quit this foolishness!”

Said hell child granted him no response, back of his head all bouncing gold as he bounded away. Still, England gained some ground on America, for his stride was longer and he was a military man first and foremost and thus knew how to run like hell when necessary. But America had the energy of a child, quick and agile and able to make sharp turns and fit in the small spaces his elder could not. He demonstrated this as he wove between the bushes and trees alongside the garden— hopped over a rusted old wheelbarrow into a wet patch from yesterday’s rain. He didn’t quite make the landing and his feet skid out from beneath him, falling arse-first into the mud and soiling his clothing. Scurrying to his feet, he paid no mind to his father’s petunias as he trampled them and England positively _saw red_.

“Heed now what I say, boy, for when I catch you it’ll be your ruin!” _He’d burn the child’s wooden figures_ , he swore to himself in his anger. _Cast them into the fire for what he’d done to his garden_.

Oh, and it only got worse. England nearly squawked when the boy decided to take a detour through the house and track his _muddy shoes all over his bleeding carpets, oh yes, he would skin the devil—_

England flew up stairs to the house, skipping steps, and burst through the door without any pretense of restraint, earning a few yelps and wide-eyed stares from the house staff. America scampered into one of the rooms, dashing madly, and finally England had the chance to outwit him. He sprinted down the corridor, for the room had another opening on the other side of the house, if only he could reach it before—

Just as he’d arrived at the door, there was a shatter, the sound of broken glass and ceramic, crashing to the ground in a hushed uproar. That had better not have been his prized chinaware.

SLAM! America had thrown the wooden door open, only to be met with the clenched-jaw steely glare of his very angry father. He squealed as England quickly snatched him up, thrashing in his grasp like a threatened animal. He cried out in desperation the only thing he could, for he knew he was in for a world of trouble, “ _Father!_ Let me go!”

“Your behavior has been unspeakable today, you little hellion.” England managed to grit out, hissed when America’s knee mercilessly jabbed into the soft space under his rib. Lord, the boy did not know his strength. He held him fast to his hip and stormed towards the back of the house. “You must bathe just as everyone else in polite society!”

“But I hate getting all wet!” the child whined and pushed against his elder, digging his heel into his thigh.

“And yet you have no qualms splashing about in the mud!” England would need to change after giving America a bath. The dirt from his breeches was smearing his own. “You’re filthy!”

“I like being dirty! I hate being clean!”

“Heaven knows where you got that from,” he growled in irritation. America was just being defiant now. England took him to the basin in the backyard and unceremoniously dunked him in the water, clothes and all.

The otherwise clear water immediately became murky, blossoming and swirling with the substantial amount of dirt that had been caked onto the child. America came up, sputtering and gasping, wringing tight fists into his eyes to clear them out. Not hesitating for a moment, England took the soap and began to roughly scrub the grime out of his child’s hair. America’s violent resistance seemed to have dissolved in the water, for all he could do now was cry as he was washed. A heavy silence fell over them, the swashing of water and the sobs of the boy the only sounds that broke it.

England decided bath time was over when America’s teeth began to chatter. It was a hot enough day for a bath, but he supposed the water had been a tad cool for comfort. He wrapped a blanket around the lad and removed him, water dripping all over the grass. America continued to shiver and tugged the blanket tightly around his body, pout sticking out from his round cheeks as he glared at at his toes.

Well, he’d wipe that pout off his face. Without warning, England brought a towel to his hair and mussed it roughly, causing the boy to squirm. He shot England a scowl once he’d finished, an expression he’d learned from his father, and he suddenly did look quite like him. Endeared, England stroked his fluffed hair back and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “There,” his voice was gentler now as his rage had dissipated. “All clean.”

America made a face at the kiss, for he was at an age that thought all such displays of affection were gross. “Can I go out and play now, Lord Father?” He tacked a ‘lord’ to his name whenever he was trying to get his way, a manipulative tick he’d also learned from him that England found far less endearing.

“Absolutely not. You’ll simply dirty yourself once more.” His anger returned in the form of dull annoyance. “Supper will be ready soon enough. At any rate, you’ve created quite a mess. I expect you to help the serving staff clean it up.”

America didn’t appear to hear much of what he’d said and whined, “But it’s been raining for days! I’m bored of playing indoors! Besides, it’s _fun_ jumping in the puddles—”

“I don’t care. You will do no such thing. You will apologize to the house staff for your behavior, you will keep your mouth shut, and you will cause no further trouble this evening or you will go to bed without supper. Do I make myself clear?” England snapped in impatience, giving the boy a stern look.

America mumbled a “yes, sir” under his breath, though he still had that defiant pout to him. Fed up with the lad, England made no further remark. After America was dressed, he steered him into the house, keeping a hand on his shoulder in case the boy had a death wish and decided to run again.

Once inside, England released a heavy sigh as he noted the damage that had been done. Muddy footprints covered the wooden floors and soiled his disheveled ornamental rugs. A couple of worried maids stood off to the side, hands wrung behind their backs. Well, they clearly had something to say, and England doubted it would be anything he wanted to hear. He pinched the bridge of his nose and released them of their burden, “Yes, go on. What is it?”

One of the pair stepped forward. “Lord Kirkland, it is…regrettable that I must inform you that your porcelains have, ah...met their end, shall we say,” her voice trailed off and she gave him a sheepish look.

England returned her a bitter smile. Of course they had. They’d cost him a pretty penny, but, truly, it was his own fault for leaving them in the colonies. “That’s most unfortunate, but I suppose there’s nothing that can be done. Throw them out then.”

“Would you like for me to start on washing the floors afterwards, my lord?”

“If you would be so kind. In fact, Alfred here will be happy to assist you with that.”

It was too much to hope that America would keep quiet. A high voice piped up beside him, grating and petulant, “I _loathe_ cleaning! It’s such a _bore_.”

England’s clasp on America’s shoulder tightened, squeezing, and he bent over so that he was close enough to feel the other’s hitched breath. He spoke lowly, “You’ve made yourself enough of a nuisance today. I don’t want to hear one more word out of you. You will help this woman because it is the only decent thing you can do after the trouble you’ve caused her.”

America continued to whinge, but England ignored him, shooting the maid an apologetic look as he retreated to his study. She gave a resigned sigh, shook her head. This was far too common an occurrence.

_Would this child ever grow? Who could tell._


End file.
